Nevermind

Well. That ended rather quickly.

During a conversation yesterday morning with our GC (we were discussing transportation to next Friday’s 3^rd embryo transfer) she casually mentioned that her wife would be having a PET scan the day before the transfer.

….

Oh that? That’s the sound of a needle scratching.

Apparently she has spots on her liver. Enormous spots. Spots the size of a salad plate. Spots that were 1/10^th the size in November. They’re trying to think positive and just go on with their lives with a ‘business-as-usual’ mentality. ½ denial + ½ overwhelm + ½ they don’t live with a scientist.

But I do. And I instantly understood what we were potentially talking about here. Sometime the day before or the day of the embryo transfer next week, they are likely to learn that my best friend’s wife has terminal liver cancer. My husband did a quick pubmed search and discovered that the skin cancer she was diagnosed with 2 years ago typically metastasizes to the liver and has a 22% survival rate at 5 years.

We of course, did not know this when we agreed to try and have a baby with them. I’m not sure they know it. And of course, none of us is sure if this is what has happened. But salad-plate sized spots are never a harbinger of smooth seas ahead.

So over dinner last night my husband and I discussed what to do. Gamble on the test results coming back fine? That seemed so unlikely given all we were reading. And if we did that and the test results weren’t OK, we’d have to make all these decisions at the very last minute. And if for some reason we didn’t have all the information and went ahead with the transfer anyway we’d be in a really terrible spot. Either it’d fail and we’d always wonder if the stress of the situation had done it, or it’d WORK and we’d be watching our baby be gestated in possibly the most stressful situation we could imagine – while our GC watched her wife die. And if she is going to be extremely ill or die we’d be the ones who would want to help – not add another stressor to her life. We’d need to help out with her sons and support her and… and this was all getting WAY TOO FUCKED UP.

I looked at my husband and said: “I don’t know about you but my gut is screaming, ‘this is 110% more crazy than I can tolerate’”

And then I picked up the phone and in the most delicate way possible, told my best friend that we were stopping. I told her it was a “break” but I don’t really think that’s true. I think we’ve hit an enormous brick wall that we are not going to see the other side of. I think this is really and truly it. They will be dealing with a very serious illness and husband and I will be moving on with our lives.

Yes, we might briefly talk about if there are any other ideas left out there. I could attempt to wean myself off my medication and have a go at it myself. But I don’t know if that’s even possible or a good idea.

Right now, I have three main emotions:

1. 1.     Relief. This cycle was getting hard to deal with. I don’t know why exactly. Chalk it up to battle fatigue. But knowing you’re walking into almost certain failure was not sitting well with me each passing day. And yesterday, that fatigue turned into panic and I just wasn’t going to be able to sit with that for the remaining 3 weeks.
2. 2.     Guilt. I cannot believe my desire for a kid dragged my husband and I, my best friend and her wife and my parents into what turned out to be an incredibly expensive, upsetting and bafflingly complicated mess. I did not want to spend a year of our time/money/energy on something that turned out to be so pointless.
3. 3.     Fear. I am not ready to hear that my friend’s wife is as sick as I think she is. I’m truly petrified for them. I’ve known her for 20 years. She is essentially my sister-in-law and the primary caregiver for my two ‘nephews.’ I do not want this for any of them.

I suppose if this really is the end – there will also be grief. But honestly, right now that’s just going to have to wait it’s turn.

Yes, seriously.

Ok so the boodwork was negative - no surprise. Still no kid anywhere in sight.

And I guess I'm through at least a couple stages of grief by now since I'm no longer angry like I was on Thursday. Well, maybe a still a bit angry at the universe but that's kind of like background radiation at this point. I've either skipped completely over the bargaining stage or am so squarely immersed in it that I can't tell. I'm definitely hitting some of the highlights of the depression stage (why bother, what's the point, ect) but lord knows that's NO country for me to linger in. I would not say I've reached any form of acceptance - though we have made up our minds about what we want to do.

We're going to try again. Husband is very adamant we not give up, GC has said she's ok to go again, and the money - well, that just is what it is. Let's hope we don't owe the IRS too much this year and that we can find a cheap place to take a few days off this July. HOWEVER. I really want to try to make this next round easier.

For starters: I will talk to the clinic about getting their shit together. I want to switch coordinators and get one that will always keep me in the loop and take a lot of this organization off my shoulders. I will also probably talk to my friend, my "GC," about how it's just hard for me to feel like all of this is out of my control. I know she knows this (I've said it before) but it'd probably be good for me to say it because I really don't want her to pick up on my frustration and ever be insulted in any way. I do trust her judgement - it's just hard (for me) to trust anyone with something like this. Lifting some pieces of furniture and driving through a snowstorm is not really considered dangerous if you're a little bit pregnant. I mean, it's not like she was skydiving while drinking a handle of tequila. I'm just hyper-sensitive. And when you spend two weeks hoping and frankly, looking for any kind of a sign that this worked, you get hyper-ultra-crazy-sensitive. So that one's on me.

I read (well, truthfully, devoured) a good book last week called The Baby Chase all about surrogacy. It basically confirmed that we're doing the right things and for the right reasons. It made me feel better about not trying any half measures or adoption and going straight to the most extreme intervention possible. However, it did explain that even when you get all the pieces right, no one really knows why IVF only has a 33-50% chance of working and there are a lot of people who try and try like us with no success - and how galling that can be. It also talked about the expense and how most people cannot do this and wind up going to India or a foreign country where health care is cheaper.

My favorite part of the book was that the woman trying to have a baby (real woman - nonfiction) was ineligible for adoption because of a history of psych issues. And it talked about how parody laws were supposed to cover mental illness but they don't really deal with so many things that I guess some would deem quality of life issues. Yes, in American today, you now can be mentally ill and have some access to care (well, unless you get incarcerated in which case, god help you). She had medicine and was no longer a risk to herself. But most mentally ill suffer daily with a chronic disability that there are no handicapped ramps for. Access to many of the things in life that "regular" people have is out of reach. Like raising a child. Like a career.

Last night, my conversation with my husband turned back to why I can't carry this baby in the first place - my anxiety and the physical symptoms it's spawned. Why AM I so anxious we both wonder sometimes. We have a very nice life these days. Ultimately, I told him, a lot of what frustrates me these days is how small my life has become. I grew up thinking I'd be someone important in my field. Then, when I was extremely sick and trying to get better, I believed that was a noble battle to be fighting and was proud of how better I got after how sick I'd been. But since we left California, and my illness has been "in remission," I haven't really done anything too spectacular: I've kept a house, organized our financial lives, performed well at my job and took great care of our marriage and pets. But none of that comes close to the level of achievement I expected. Perhaps it's foolish and egotistical to dream big. Or, perhaps it's appropriate considering my education. I'll never know.

I do know, however, why I no longer dream big. I assume I cannot do things because I'm disabled. And hunkering down into a little inoffensive ball is making my neck hurt - literally. I want to stand UP.

seriously? no really. SERIOUSLY?

WED AM:

Gestational Carrier “GC”: “Hm. My wife wants those twin beds our sister in law’s giving away so since I'm off work, I guess I’ll rent a truck, drive out to pick them up and then drive them up to our weekend house – I’m sure that snowstorm won’t cause any problems - and lifting furniture seems fine for a woman who's getting a pregnancy test tomorrow as long as I disassemble it into little parts.”

WED PM:

GC:  “wow – that was an unpleasant and stressful drive. Oh hey, I got my period - darn it. Well I won’t tell Juniper 'til the morning - that way I can talk to the clinic first about what to do. I’ll just tell her I’ll call her tomorrow at 10am after I drop my son off at his appointment.”

Juniper: “Wow – hard to believe we won’t find out the pregnancy test results ‘til tomorrow evening. It’s been so hard to wait. Wish we just knew already.”

THURS 11AM:

Juniper: “Hey… what’s up? Haven’t heard from you.”

GC: “Good dropped the little man off and am at Starbucks. I know you are in with a client so I figured I wouldn't bother you.”

Juniper: “Ok. When do u go to the clinic for the bloodwork? This afternoon?”

GC: “I am waiting to hear from the clinic. I emailed them this morning. I got my period last night and I didn't know if they wanted to do the test or reset the schedule.” 

Um… reset the $20,000 schedule my husband & I aren’t sure we can handle?!?

Juniper: “Ok. I assume they'll still want u to take the test b/c you could still be pregnant & have a period (I think - I mean, I grant u, it's not likely)”

GC: “I know. But if I am not I want to get started on the next cycle.”

Juniper: “Well they won't start anything ‘til after your period’s over & we consult w/the Dr. anyway.”

GC: “hold on – they emailed. I am going to do the bloodwork and then we will see where we stand.” Of course they are – that’s what I just SAID.

Juniper: “Ok. So when will u go?”

GC: “I'll go to test tomorrow morning at [the clinic near my house]”

Juniper: I just talked to [my husband] and I think we’d prefer you go today as planned - If we wait ’til tomorrow, there’s no certainty we’ll get the results from the city ’til Sat AM and that's a long time to wait.” She went.

THURS PM:

Clinic: “Hi Juniper,  [GC] went into the lab after 2PM today so I do not have results, I will call you tomorrow.”

Juniper: “OK I understand. Thanks for the update. [GC] was reluctant to go when she saw that she had gotten her period but I knew we'd need to do the bloodwork nonetheless so I urged her to go this afternoon when she had a free moment. I knew this would, unfortunately, delay the results until tomorrow.” Cue screaming sound in my head…

so tired I can't see straight

well. I suppose an update would be in order - though in truth, there's not much to update. At least, not yet.

The first transfer cycle failed. No idea why - good embryo, good uterus... just didn't grab on. When I heard, I was surprised to find I was 15% sad, 75% angry and 10% relieved. Why sad? Well that's self evident. Why relieved? Well because I know just the pregnancy itself (not to mention the actual child) will completely turn our lives inside-out and, like all prospective parents, we do get nervous about what that'll look like for our jobs, marriage, sleep, finances, ect.

But why mostly angry? Well I'd just read an article on the NYTimes "Fertility Diary" series titled "How Much Would you Pay for a Baby." And it exactly described how I felt and why I was so angry. I'm NOT a gambler - last time I was in Vegas was on a research trip and I played nickel blackjack 'til I got my free drink and then left.

But this time we'd put our money on black and lost. It's hard to estimate exactly how much we lost... somewhere in the neighborhood of at least $20k when you figure the embryos cost approximately $10k each to make and the fertility clinic costs are about $10k each try. Of course that doesn't get into all the other costs of lawyers and travel time and thank you gifts for my friend, but you get the picture. And sure, it's not all our money - as I mentioned in my last post we're using part of my inheritance so it's not like we're going hungry over here. But STILL. That's just a lot of money to lay out for absolutely nothing, well except the pleasure of getting kicked in the nuts. Because of course, that's the other thing we lost... hope. After seeing a cycle fail, it became hard to see this process as anything other than a very long and painful slog. You stop thinking about how awesome it'll be to have a child of your own and start thinking about how much it's going to suck to keep going through this again and again and again.

But practical people that we are and knowing that it's about a 50/50 chance each time, we said we'd ante up again. Great, our doctor said! Next cycle starts in mid January with a transfer date of February 7th. We took a break from thinking about all this over the holidays and honestly felt a bit saner after a month.

And now we're in the thick of it again and, true to form, this cycle's been absurdly challenging from start to finish. Each weekly checkup for our gestational carrier been screwed up by some ridiculous bookkeeping error. They didn't send out the initial instructions because our "coordinator" was away. The monitoring clinic canceled for Chinese New Year but we were told a different day so then both days had to be rescheduled. And then, like the fucking cherry on top of the sundae, on Thursday night, our clinic called and said the our carrier's day-before labs looked off and we may not be able to go through with this cycle. So on Friday we all drove the 2 hours to the clinic, assuming we'd only double check the labs and then be told to go home - sorry about that $3k of monitoring fees, play again next month! And then the labs were fine and we went ahead and did the transfer as planned. Well, except with a lot more sobbing from me because COME ON! Jerk me around a bit more while you're at it universe...

And so we wait. One day down (the only day that actually matters of course - it's either stuck by now or it hasn't) and only 12 more to go! Whee.

I'm scared it won't work (of course) and I'm scared it will. If it works, I then have to make it 9 long months with my kiddo in someone else's body. The further we get into this, the scarier that seems. I've gotten a pretty good look at myself throughout this whole process and I've learned just how hard it is for me to put my trust in others. I absolutely trust my friend to be a good carrier. However, that doesn't mean that every single day she carries that baby, a very good chunk of by brain is going to be pre-occupied with how they're doing.

So in summary:
Give me our baby NOW.
We've been really patient.
And I'm not sure how much longer we can wait.
We're both getting incredibly tired.

so scared I can't see straight

So that (see below) was where we were in late June. Now, 4.5 months later, things are in a different place. Not less stressful (does that even happen?) just… different.

Another doctor in a neighboring state agreed to help us. He said our plans seemed “pretty straightforward.” We agreed. He appreciated how “down to earth” we were. Well… we try, we said. So he got us an embryo and that was a whole big thing with genetic testing and paperwork and interviews and ALL the money. Sometimes they dropped a ball & I had to get a bit… firm, but by the time September rolled around, we had 4 lovely frozen kid-sicles.

Around the same time, we got the lawyer to finalize the surrogacy contract with our friend and man… Basically it’s a super complicated document where we agree on every possible hypothetical scenario. After proofing the 3^rd version, my optometrist’s predictions of reading glasses in the near future started to make some sense. Sometimes they dropped a ball & I had to get a bit… firm, but it’s done. Finally.

The lawyer WAS very helpful at explaining that, despite the fact that our friend and the kid-sicles live in said neighboring state, OUR state is much friendlier to surrogacy. Better to start & finish the pregnancy in our state. So we found a fertility clinic as close to the state line as possible. That too was also a whole big thing with psych testing and paperwork and interviews and all the REST of the money. Sometimes they dropped a ball & I had to get a bit… firm, but we cleared all their hoops and said they’d work with us.

(Are you sensing a theme? Pick up phone, yell, then send all the money.)

In fact, there have been so many “whole big things” that I probably need to buy more memory for my computer to hold all this paperwork. Just having the embryos shipped from one state to the other was whole big thing (and the shipper would appreciate a pile of money too, thankyouverymuch). All I’m saying is thank god for the Xerox scan/fax/copier at my office. And, needless to say, each step just ate up week after week until now - here we are in early November.

And now my friend is now going through the first transplant cycle. Embryo transfer right after Thanksgiving means pregnancy test right before Christmas. Happy Holidays….?!??? If this doesn’t work, we theoretically have 3 more tries – unless one of the embryos doesn’t defrost well (WTF, BTW? Can they get freezer burn or something?) So I assume by June we’ll either be done or be expecting.

The probability calculations are the stuff of an AP course. If four, mutually exclusive events have a 33% probability of producing a live birth correcting for the likelihood that those statistics are probably off since we’re using high quality embryos and a fertile surrogate, the probability that we’ll have a baby by 2015 is… oh hell, just flip a coin.

Also, it’s not such an easy thing to say, “we’ll keep trying ‘til we’re out of embryos.” It’s MIND-BLOWING how expensive it is to do each transplant. Since there’s no “medical necessity” for surrogacy or adoption (I guess insurance companies will only pay for you to pointlessly keep banging away despite confirmed sterility) this is all out-of-pocket. And last I checked, I didn’t change pants with King Midas. My pockets contain quarters. And thus, we’re using part of my inheritance. It has the indescribable quality of making logical sense and feeling icky every time you have to ask daddy to pay for progesterone for your BFF.

Well, bed made. Now lying in it.

I worry about this transplant not working. A lot. We’ve tried to control for every possible disaster but when biology gets involved, all bets are off. Despite my friend’s incredible gift of her body to carry this baby, there are no assurances the embryos will take. And if it does take, there’s no assurances they’ll hold. Her life is just as chaotic as the next person’s (truth be told – her life is a bit MORE chaotic than average – probably not surprising when a person’s willing to donate her organs for others’ use) and so, in some respects, she’s the only variable we didn’t control. We could’ve gone out and hired a younger, less busy, more ‘yoga-minded’ lady to carry this baby but we didn’t – my friend just volunteered. And it HAS made it easier to be doing this with her. Our long and deep friendship seems to allay all the clinics’ concerns that we’re secretly running a black-market baby-baking ring. But some days it has also made it harder. When her life gets chaotic & I worry she’s too maxed out to jump through all these hoops, I can’t pick up the phone and get “firm” with her. She’s my best friend who’s giving me a massive gift. If I get scared, I can’t talk to my best friend about all the ‘what-if’s’ because she IS all the ‘what-if’s.’

And while I’m getting all these thoughts out on paper, there’s one other terrible, horrible thing I should just say. Once again, it’s all kind of… a hidden struggle. My husband and I are the ones who are affected here: the ones that found out we couldn’t have a kid while dealing with other major health crises, the ones who have spent the last half year navigating the ups and downs of this crazy world of infertility interventions. It’s been, well, hard. But like struggles with mental illness, you’re not supposed to talk about it. (I don’t know WHY. Maybe it has something to do with the tacit recognition that penises exist?) And if (please, please, please) this works, I won’t complain. Promise. But I will not LIKE it that everyone else involved will be the hero of the story: the friend who selflessly donated her body to carry the baby, the parents who reached into their bank accounts to fund this crazy journey, the doctors who used their massive brains to help the poor, poor, couple who couldn’t help themselves.

Except we did. We are. We’re the ones who are trying. And we will never get to talk to anyone (besides this anonymous page) about the enormous amount of courage this has taken every day.

so mad I can't see straight

So lemme tell you about disability. It blows. It blows hard.

So back in good 'ol March of 2008 when we learned we couldn't have kids, we kinda got pretty sad about it. That took a while to deal with. Depression doesn't go away in a day. So we focued on enjoying our new house and each other's company and basically - we table the whole kid discussion completely.

Fast forward to 2010 and we're starting to feel a bit better about life. Maybe we'll adopt, we think. A couple different friends are doing it... but every time we talk to them about it, it sounds SO hard. And let's be honest. We're really tired at this point. It's been a really hard decade and we're just not sure we're up for more and more and more disappointment. We'd really like to have at least one family member that doesn't have a history of abuse or neglect. Them therapy bills - them get spendy. Oh and did I mention that any reputable adoption agency would look at a crazy lady like me and laugh...

But then, in 2011, we realize: hey! You don't have to adopt a fully born person - there's this thing called embryo adoption. It's really much easier legally all the way around. And the added benefit is then my husband and I are on equal terms - neither of us is related to the kid - it's like adoption but with less paperwork! Pop one of them in me and we're good. But, says my husband - can we wait just a year or so? I'm at a really, really, REALLY, important juncture in my career and I don't have 10 seconds of free time to even think about this. 110% of his bandwidth is spoken for. Fine. What's one more year?

And then (because, OF COURSE) the stress of everything just finally reaches some kind of tipping-point-broken-camel's-back straw and I get sick AGAIN. Not crazy in the good 'ol fashioned, just pop some lithium in her and she'll be right as rain again sick. Sick like "we think you might have lymphoma" sick. Turns out I don't have lymphoma or lupus or lyme or any of the other horrible things. I have Chronic Fatigue. What is that, you may ask? Well, there's a whole division of the NIH currently trying to figure that shit out because no one knows. My interpretation: your stress level gets so high your immune system tries to attack itself. Fun times.

OK, so I deal with a year of feeling like I have the flu and finally convince my doctor to get me some Xanax and presto - yet another major hurdle in life cleared. I'm feelin' fine and the husband's major work turning point has been passed with flying colors and it's time to decide what to do. I run into my best friend and she asks "hey, isn't it time to decide what to do?" "Yeah, I say, we're thinking embryo adoption and since I just got stabilized on this medicine, we'll hire a surrogate." "that's crazy - I'll do it!" she said. Done and done.

Except. Except.

Our doctor doesn't want to. He's uncomfortable with no one being the genetic parent. He's worried we might just walk away and abandon the child at the hospital. Although he and my husband are colleagues and we're all neighbors and live in the same town and we typically spend $1000s when our dog gets any kind of boo-boo, we're ethically sketchy to him. Maaaaybe, his team will consider it he says. Maaaaybe if we sign away all rights with the lawyer and agree to take the baby no matter if it has 15 arms and 25 heads, he'll consider it. He'll be in touch he says. Before July 4th because then he has to go to a conference. If he won't do it we can just truck ourselves and our surrogate 3 states away to another place that will. NBD - he doesn't have to buy the plane tickets or get babysitting for my best friend's kids.

Ass.
Hat.

And all of this would be one thing if he were right. But according to our lawyer, he's not. He's dead wrong. The law would make us the legal guardians. He's just squeamish and hidebound and basically, a risk-adverse jerk-ass. Because we have disabilities, we don't get the same basic rights as everyone else.

Cock.
Waffle.

Did I mention we adopted a dog? She's very nice. We like her a lot. She ate a toxic mushroom last week and we spent $800 restoring her to health. But we're the ethically sketchy ones who abandon the helpless at the drop of a hat.

Fuck.
Wad.

To Stick

So I’m sitting here on my day off, watching “Eat, Pray, Love” and thinking about marriage. At its core, the movie is reprehensible. It’s about a scared woman who marries someone she shouldn’t (who I’m sure is lovely on some level but is predictably portrayed as a buffoon) and so abandons him to travel around the world with what seems to be an inexplicably large amount of money. And of course, it’s making me think about the fact that I am up to my eyeballs in a 15-year relationship (and almost 10-year marriage) and that IT is the adventure of my lifetime. I don’t need to travel around the world to find meaning in a plate of pasta or on a beach. I find meaning in the life I’m building day by day with my husband.

And dear god, is it SOME life. It is unbelievable what we have been through in these first ten years of our marriage:

• The world fell apart on 9/11
• I walked away a career I’d been building for 20 years
• I went completely crazy and had to be hospitalized for over 2 straight years
• I was arrested
• We were POOR
• We moved every 2 years on average - once, across a continent, leaving everyone we knew
• We learned we could not make babies and fell apart for a while
• We bought a house
• We built 2 careers with some success
• We decided that our families are unsalvageable and destructive forces in our lives
• We discovered that one of us has an orphan disease
• We spent SO MUCH money on therapy…

Lying in bed last night, we both discussed what to make of all this. A curse? A self-fulfilling prophesy? Behavioral patterns passed down by previous, suck-y generations? That one sounded the most likely. And how to proceed? Bury-head-in-sand sounded good as did pull-covers-over-head. But the amazing thing is that we both came to the same answer on our own.

We get up each day and continue to try to make a life.

Nothing else makes any sense. All other options are worse. I’ve tried them - I know. How amazing to roll over in bed and discover that the person lying right there next to you thinks the exact same thing as you do. And, on top of everything, loves you right back. THAT is an adventure.

(And funny enough, that’s what Julia Roberts discovers by the end of the film too…)

The Collector

I have a new diagnosis (or two)! More to add to my collection! So far I’ve been told I have:

- Major depression

- “Double” depression (major + dysthymia)

- Alcoholism

- Borderline personality disorder

And now, drum roll please:

- Generalized anxiety disorder

- Obsessive compulsive disorder

Frankly, I think all these diagnoses are sort of all bullshit at this point. I know I’ve met the diagnostic criteria for all of them at one point or another and I currently meet the criteria for GAD and OCD, hence the new “diagnosis.” But honestly, these don’t mean anything to me anymore. Nor does the DSM mean much to me these days. I know what I have and I know how to fix it (brains + cash + support + time).

Yet when my doc sprung this on me yesterday, it was still a disappointment. Half: “well, of course” and half “oh no, not again.” He wanted to leap right into a discussion of treatment options and therapeutic interventions and I was like…. Stop. Let’s just process the fact that you’re saying this to me. Let’s just process what this MEANS and feels like. Let’s start with identifying what was the chicken here and what was the egg.

I dunno, somehow, it’s really important for me to understand what came first. If you had cancer, you’d want to know that it was the chemo that was causing your nausea, not the cancer or some other, horrible, underlying illness. And I kind of think that this might be what’s happening here: getting better is causing some things to get worse. It’s like trading one, horrible debilitating illness for four, smaller slightly less annoying ones. Watch:

Age 0-7:

I know I started with a genetic susceptibility towards emotional sensitivity. I own that. I’m sensitive in all the good and bad ways that word connotes. I’m also creative and intelligent – another asset/liability depending on what day it is. Growing up, my home environment preys on this. My parents’ inability to regulate their emotions spilled over and made me even more hyper-vigilant. Their invalidation & narcissism alters my perceptions of the world and necessitates coping mechanisms like dissociation and near-psychotic (albeit creative) interpretations of reality. (I cannot control trees, no matter how much I believe I can. (I think.))

- Diagnosis at 7: gifted

- Treatment: play Battleship with the school shrink

Age 8-14:

Now, add to this mix an actual, tangible reality that I had to LIVE in every day with things like school and peer pressure and adolescence and loss… and I get pretty worn out. It’s hard to be the crazy one. It gets old. I want to escape. I think about death. A lot. Remember, the rules don’t apply to meeeee!

- Diagnosis at 14: major depression

- Treatment: go directly to hospital. Do not pass go. But maybe stop in at your local liquor store.

Age 15-27:

Wow. That whole crazy/hospital thing really got everyone’s attention. Maybe a bit too much… but, WOW. I’m gonna tell everyone I meet about THAT. Maybe even make it my new “thing.” Oh, and alcohol works great!

- Diagnosis at 27: double depression & alcoholism & borderline

- Treatment: how much money have you got? Double it and mail directly to the nearest mental health provider. Also: cutting releases endorphins! Do that.

Age 28-36:

So. Maybe I went a bit overboard… That whole crazy thing tends to make nice things like husbands and jobs and car keys disappear. Maybe I should try getting - and then keeping - my shit together. But to do that, I’ll have to hold on tight. Really dig my nails in deep and keep everything under perfect lock and key. Measure it out to the nearest microgram. And worry. Don’t forget a heaping spoonful of worry. That’ll help the medicine go down.

- Diagnosis at 36: GAD & OCD

- Treatment: to be determined.

Groups

I’ve done a LOT of group therapy in my life. Of course there were the endless hours of groups that came with every inpatient and partial hospitalization. There were various outpatient DBT groups, various AA meetings and even one outpatient CBT group. But nothing – nothing held a candle to the group my friends and I created on our own.

We all met in a PHP program run by a local hospital. It was a pretty good program, as these things go. There was the usual drama. A girl that no one liked killed herself. The damned “movement therapy” people forced us into sing-a-longs (with tambourines) in the middle of a day that bruised our self-esteem. There were insurance battles. The DBT therapist had a newborn and was so sleep-deprived that she couldn’t run a group to save her life. One of the social workers looked like a hobbit. We tried not to look enviously at the other outpatient programs for medical issues that looked better funded and frankly, cleaner.

Eventually though, the program ran out for all of us (did I mention the insurance battles) and we tentatively agreed to try and keep meeting. Maybe every couple of weeks, we said? A potluck at one woman’s house? We did it and it went WELL. Then one night, at the last minute, we couldn’t get in touch with our host. She was busy trying to kill herself we later learned. When she got out of the coma we started meeting again but now on a weekly basis.

Every Friday in Alameda we sat for hours and hours and listened patiently to each other. There were 8 of us. I was actually the youngest at 31. Everyone else was somewhere between 40-60. But it didn’t matter. We all had some variety of depression. Others had some axis II stuff going on and maybe some substance abuse thrown in for fun. But we all had something in common: at one point, all of us had wanted to kill ourselves and we just wanted to keep each other ALIVE. It became a support group for people addicted to the idea that suicide was an answer.

I’m going to stage a reunion in May when we go back for a visit. It’ll have been almost 4 years since we were all together. I’ve missed them all so much.

All of them.

All of us are still alive.

All of us.